


ON THE LINE

by spicyshimmy



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, Slash, Voice Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrus calls Shepard up on a private line and gets him off. Shepard really likes those turian voices. <i>‘You’re in my sightlines even now,’ Garrus said. Metaphorically, Shepard hoped, shifting in place.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	ON THE LINE

It was late enough that the glow from his omni-tool made Shepard squint. He hadn’t realized it, but he was feeling sleepy—not tired. He was always tired, and tired was different, could be put down so much easier than its partner.

There was only one person in the galaxy who’d send communications through at this time of night and for once, that one person wasn’t Hackett, or anyone on a council, or anyone who hated councils, or anyone else in the extended network of people he’d helped and people he still had to help but Garrus Vakarian.

Shepard didn’t wait an extra second or two while the lights flashed so he could catch his breath; he didn’t have to do that before approaching hostiles anymore, either, because as many of them as there were, Shepard could still rely on them showing up and trying to ruin _something_. And maybe the same attitude, the same skill-set, shaped the rest of his life more than he knew.

And maybe nighttime, with his usual squad split up for their current mission, was meant less for catching some shut-eye and more for contemplation.

But Shepard didn’t have time for any of that—not even on the rare nights he _was_ sleeping.

‘Don’t tell me something went wrong, Garrus,’ Shepard said. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Is that an order, Commander?’ Garrus replied.

His voice, metallic and tinny even when they were standing side by side, still managed to come through clear, with a wry twist at the end that suggested a smile when he wasn’t actually smiling. Shepard rubbed his jaw with his free hand, not because a smile of his own was starting, but because the muscles in his face were starting to remember how it was _to_ smile.

Okay; maybe Garrus had that effect on him.  

‘If it was, I’d expect you not to follow it.’ Shepard waited for Garrus’s chuckle and it came, punctuated by clearing his throat, and what Shepard didn’t have any trouble picturing was the accompanying flare of his mandibles, a keen light in his pretty much wonderful eyes. ‘So what’s up? Don’t snipe this at me, Garrus, whatever it is—make it a clean shot.’

‘You’re in my sightlines even now,’ Garrus said. Metaphorically, Shepard hoped, shifting in place.

The stakeout hadn’t been comfortable and it was one of those small details that had Shepard feeling like he was wasting time on a tiny piece of the puzzle when the rest was still coming together, too fast, into a picture nobody was ready to see. So Shepard was ready—he had to be—while simultaneously being ready for this mission to be _over_ so they could finally start on the next.

Laying the foundations—that wasn’t his specialty. But somebody had to be the whole package.

‘Okay. Shoot,’ Shepard said.

The pause on the other end of the line kept its distance; Garrus _did_ love indulging his flair for the dramatic, Shepard would give him that. And it brought out a matching impulse in Shepard that was probably what had put him on so many billboards, in the eyes and hearts of humanity, as much as it did.

Or at least it had something to do with the catchphrases all the to-scale animated Commander Shepard figurines spewed whenever you pushed the round button at the small of their back.

‘It isn’t all _that_ important, really,’ Garrus said. ‘I just called to find out what you’re wearing.’

‘I’ve been on this detail two days straight, Garrus,’ Shepard replied, not skipping a beat. Honestly, the unexpected was easier to roll with than anything you saw coming. ‘What do you think I’m wearing? Something I never want to put on again, that’s what.’

‘Ah.’ Garrus treated them both to another long pause, picking up the tab on that one, during which Shepard had to think about his face again, scarred and unimpressed or, rare as it was, approving. But always handsome. ‘So, all sweaty and dirty, then?’

That got Shepard to stand at attention, in a manner of speaking.  

‘This is an invasion, Garrus,’ Shepard said, and it sounded good, like most speeches, even while his throat was dry. ‘I don’t dress up nice for anyone anymore. …Not even when the council wants me to lie to them about everything being under control, and how a thresher maw _didn’t_ just almost kill me instead of the reaper we introduced it to, hoping they’d be good dance partners.’

‘That’s a pity.’ Garrus was definitely working his angles here, ready to take Shepard out of the sky with only one shot. ‘You do cut quite the figure in a clean uniform. Tell me, Shepard—how dirty are you?’

Now, it was Shepard’s turn to clear his throat, which he did. It didn’t help anything but that was him, lost causes all over, and sometimes even when that lost cause was himself. ‘Well…’ Any amount of squirming, Shepard knew, was going to give Garrus exactly what he wanted. But it might not be so bad if he did, all things considered. ‘Somewhere between priority mission and recruit raw-conditions training after about a week,’ he replied finally. ‘Actually, right now, it’s just me and my skivvies and an old uniform.’

‘Ah,’ Garrus said.

 _Ah_. That was it. That was all he needed, because the word—close to a sigh, with a hum echoing through it like a detonation—was enough to send hot shrapnel all the way into Shepard’s belly.

‘Yeah,’ he agreed.

‘It’s unfortunate I’m not there to experience that for myself,’ Garrus continued. ‘Although, of course, I’ve seen you in that state so many times already; I wouldn’t want it to lose the magic _this_ soon.’

‘You just like ‘em dirty, Garrus,’ Shepard said. ‘I’m on to you.’

‘And if I do?’ Garrus’s whole voice had the hum, and even if he’d been reading a list off a memorial wall or discussing the current weather conditions on Tuchanka, Shepard would’ve been shifting in place about it, rolling his hips to chase after the heat it brought. Just a guy, his omni-tool, a late night, a small place overlooking the drop point, where he’d spent almost the past forty-eight hours staring out onto the street below, waiting for a certain target to finally show up. She was late; nobody had respect for making good time these days, for being punctual about anything.

‘And if you did,’ Shepard said, ‘I’d be sure to make the grade.’

‘Oh,’ Garrus replied, ‘you always do.’

Shepard shifted again, free hand rubbing his thigh without realizing it, the arm with the omni-tool braced against his bent knee. It was the most comfortable he’d been in the past forty-eight hours, even if his back wasn’t feeling any relief from the change.

‘Tell me, Shepard,’ Garrus added, in that particular way he had of stating painful truths and mean facts and terrible jokes like he was commenting on nothing more than the local terrain or the latest Blasto movie. Normal conversation—only Garrus didn’t _do_ normal, and neither did Shepard. ‘Are you touching yourself right now? Because if you aren’t, you should be.’

Shepard’s fingers twitched against his thigh. Technically, he _was_ touching himself, but not in the way Garrus meant.

 _Shit,_ Shepard thought. He flexed his fingers, then curved his thumb around and slid his palm over his lap; needless to say, he didn’t need the encouragement for getting hard, but it didn’t hurt his chances any to take some all the same.

‘So you _are_. I see.’ Garrus sounded cocky and when Garrus sounded cocky, Shepard _felt_ cocky. ‘That’s good; you know how much I hate being disappointed.’

‘I know how much you hate losing,’ Shepard replied, voice starting to hitch while he rubbed his dick a little harder. ‘Does that count?’

‘Tell me what you’re doing,’ Garrus said.

On a mission, he never minced words or wasted time.

‘Touching myself.’ Shepard arched his hips up into the touch he was describing, although Garrus couldn’t see it. Instinct, involuntary action, something that felt good for a change… And it was _Garrus_ Shepard was talking to; even if his throat was hot, his cheeks, he didn’t mind sharing it. The embarrassment ended up being the good kind, if there was such a thing. _Really_ good. ‘Fatigues, briefs still on.’

‘ _That_ won’t do,’ Garrus said. ‘You should probably take those fatigues off, soldier, or you’re going to get far too hot.’

 _Yeah,_ Shepard thought, _like I’m not already just from the sound of your voice_ , but it stayed locked up somewhere behind his forehead or between his ears. And Shepard was busy opening his fly and pushing his fatigues down to a place just above his knees, spreading his legs so they wouldn’t be all wrinkled when he pulled them back on again.

‘Fatigues off,’ he said.

‘I can only imagine that’s better,’ Garrus replied. ‘ _Much_ better.’

 _Yeah,_ Shepard thought again. The cotton of his briefs was damp with sweat but something else, too—the sound of Garrus’s voice getting a purr in there somehow, and the way it said _soldier_ like that was Shepard’s _real_ name.

Shepard ran his thumb over the sticky slit in the head, pushing cotton against the thinnest, most sensitive skin Shepard knew, except for _maybe_ Garrus’s oddly soft turian palms, the one place on his body where he wasn’t naturally armored. Shepard wouldn’t ever forget the night he’d discovered that, drawing a finger past his lips without taking his eyes off Garrus’s face, the most awkward and damn _hot_ thing Shepard had ever done in his life—and all with the press of a sharp talon on Shepard’s tongue as he swirled it around the tip.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to need _regular updates_ as to your position, soldier,’ Garrus reminded him, and Shepard knew the sound of his breathing was loud enough to be heard, irregular, over their private line, without it being mistaken for some kind of static interference.

He swallowed. His throat was almost too tight to finish. His fingers were already starting to push below the elastic on his briefs but he pulled back, lifting them to his lips instead. They weren’t Garrus’s fingers, but for the time being, he’d have to make do.

‘Ah,’ Garrus said again. ‘So your mouth is busy, is that it? Well, no _wonder_ you aren’t keeping up your end of the conversation.’

Shepard let the pattern of his breathing talk for him. Garrus would know what it meant; he always did.

‘I won’t have to give you a demerit, then,’ Garrus said. ‘Just remember who discovered you liked this while you’re touching yourself. Credit where it’s due, even if you _are_ the one with all the commendations.’

Shepard had to angle his hips up to get his free hand under his ass, to run his forefinger down the middle and between the half-relaxed muscle. If he closed his eyes it was still nothing like Garrus down there, no matter how often they acted with the same interests, _practically_ with the same hands. It was part of the challenge—there was always a challenge with Garrus—to get the feeling across without having the necessary anatomy.

But if Garrus thought Shepard was going to go as slow, as gentle as Garrus had…

He wasn’t. He didn’t have to, and Garrus could think about that as something Shepard was had over him. Finally.

It was six of one, half a dozen of the other. That was how they were, who they were, and Shepard had a finger inside him wishing it was Garrus, understanding that it wasn’t.

‘So,’ Garrus said, ‘how does it feel?’

Shepard could only grunt a moan in reply, and he thought he heard Garrus’s breath catch. Or it could’ve been some static, a meteor shower somewhere interrupting the feed. Shepard would never know and this time, he didn’t have to.

‘Feels like a finger in my ass, Garrus,’ Shepard managed, before his laugh turned into another moan.

‘You have such a way with words,’ Garrus told him.

And that was why Shepard had to stop talking.

He concentrated on the feeling, on the way pushing was like taking but only in this one experience, his chest tightening up when he bent his finger and stretched with the knuckle. He concentrated on getting himself up to two and on clenching his teeth when he succeeded—that was what success meant—and the silence on the other end of the line while Garrus picked up on the subtle clues, which in the end were the obvious ones.

‘How many is it now?’ he asked.

‘Just two,’ Shepard replied.

‘Not as big as turian fingers, either.’ Garrus sounded, of all things, thoughtful; Shepard could taste the same detached tone, mixed with some sort of curiosity, and the light in Garrus’s eyes. It was a contradiction ever since the first time Shepard hooked his arms under his knees and let Garrus finger him, so slow, and everything Shepard needed to come all over his stomach.

He was close to it now, close already, not even Garrus’s fingers but Garrus’s _voice_ bringing him to that place, with his briefs and fatigues pushed down over his thighs, restricting how wide he could spread his legs.

‘Shepard,’ Garrus said, low enough that it actually sounded like he was purring, and he had to know that was going to be it. Of course he did.

That was why he did it.

‘You were dirty already, after all,’ Garrus pointed out, after waiting a few long minutes. Shepard’s stomach was tight, his other muscles loose and warm, his chest tingling every time he moved, every time the cotton of his shirt pulled over his flesh. ‘It hardly seemed fair I couldn’t be a part of it _somehow_.’

‘Expecting life in this galaxy to be fair, huh, Garrus?’ Shepard needed to clear his throat again and he did; if Garrus’s words were like purring then Shepard coughed like it was a chuckle. ‘Maybe you’re not as smart as you look.’

‘And maybe you aren’t as foolish,’ Garrus said. ‘Get some sleep, Shepard.’

‘That an order, Garrus?’ Shepard asked.

‘If it was, I’d expect you to follow it,’ Garrus replied.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Thoroughly Mo/Cuddlingthecthulhu's fault. Thanks to her for inspiring it, reading it, and even liking it.


End file.
